


Brief and Tedious

by TeaandBanjo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Brief and Tedious, Police life, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaandBanjo/pseuds/TeaandBanjo
Summary: To paraphrase Shakespeare, this fic is brief and tedious.Constable Collins considers his smalls.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21
Collections: Miss Fisher's Sonder Stories





	Brief and Tedious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeatherAster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherAster/gifts).



Hugh Collins sprawled on his assigned bunk (number 27) and listened to his fellow constables snoring. The sun was just coming up, but the air had not cooled anywhere near as much as might be hoped for a February day. Bloody summer heat!

The breeze from the open window would have been more welcome if the wind wasn’t blowing from the direction of the stables.

Hugh sat up, carefully. (He had only hit his head against the bottom of the upper bunk three times before he’d gotten the hang of it) 

When he poked his head into the aisle, he could see the clock at the end of the room. He wasn’t on duty for another six hours, and there was no way he was getting back to sleep. Not between the horses, and Harris’s breathing problems, and the traffic noise.

He tried to open his locker without the hinges creaking. (fail) Maybe a quick wash and some clean linen would help?

The small folded stack of smalls seemed somewhat wrinkled. He would have to do better next time. He’d at least put the pants on the left and the vests on the right! He grabbed one of each, and shook them out.

The vest had an unfortunate stain. Tea? Sweat? Something from the laundry? He folded it, lifted the pile to slide it onto the bottom, and pulled the next vest off the top.

This vest was slightly yellow, and had an actual hole. Hugh didn’t remember when that had happened. Maybe something at the gym? Oh, well.

Hugh immediately rejected the underpants. The waistband elastic had stretched out of shape, and the pair was several years old, so the cloth part was too tight, and the waistband was too loose. “I should throw these away,” he muttered. They ended up on the bottom of the pile.

The next pair of briefs turned out to be a pair of winter wooly leggings. “Not today, Satan” he thought.

Hugh decided that he really needed the wash more than he needed clean smalls, and slammed the locker door with unnecessary force.

“Let a poor bloke sleep!” complained Constable Harris, from the upper bunk, before rolling over and snoring again.

“Sorry!” whispered Hugh. 

He tiptoed to the bath at the end of the room. The white tile was not immaculate, and the smell was only a slight improvement from the stables, but he felt fortunate that he didn’t have to wait for either a chance at a toilet or one of the sinks. He would shave later.

He padded, barefoot, back to bunk 27. On one hand, he very much wanted to be away from the rows of bunks, dripping plumbing, and all the other annoying features of the Melbourne police barracks. On the other hand, he had nowhere else to go.

Time to find some actual clean clothing. The door groaned on its bent hinges, and he took the entire armful of undergarments and flung them onto his bed. He would organize them properly, and find some that weren’t too awful to wear today.

When Hugh’s collection of smalls were sorted on his bunk, he realized that the piles were “stained”, “torn”, “doesn’t fit”, “stained  _ and _ torn”, and “winter.”

He remembered the last time he’d been shopping for clothing. The experience had been both expensive and humiliating. The clerks had frowned at him, and he’d spent his entire week’s pay on not very many pairs of socks, and a few new vests.

He could certainly steel himself for the scrutiny of a few shop-girls, but every pound he spent now was a pound less he could save for a flat with Dotty. The suffering would be worth it, when they could be married, and he could take care of her, and she could take care of his laundry. He had a feeling she’d be appalled if she knew the state of his smalls, but he was willing to sacrifice.

The scratchy wool things were folded in their own pile. Maybe he’d need them in June? 

The “doesn’t fit” pile went into the rubbish bin. He’d just have to pay more attention to how often he had stuff laundered.

Stained, he could deal with. He smoothed the wrinkles under his palm and folded them carefully. The shelf in his locker had lots of space left.

He found the tidy, homemade mending kit that Dot had given him, and brought it back to his bunk. There were needles, six pins, a spool of white thread, and a tiny pair of scissors to cut off the thread. It was all wrapped in a navy-blue canvas pouch that had his initials on the flap, worked in red thread. 

Hugh sat cross-legged on his bunk, and stitched holes in his underwear. He was imagining Dorothy’s soft voice, her smooth hands rolling out dough, and the way she smiled at him while they sat in the shade of that one big gum tree ...

**Author's Note:**

> Various sources have mentioned that in the era of Miss Fisher, unmarried constables could live in the police barracks. So, when Constable Collins gets kicked out by his mother, he does have a place to go. It seems he might not like it much, though!
> 
> HeatherAster is responsible for pointing out that Constable Collin's undergarments fit the description of "brief and tedious"! Thanks!


End file.
